


kismet

by 2davidbeckham3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 15:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10767396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2davidbeckham3/pseuds/2davidbeckham3
Summary: His hair is longer than Guti's has ever been.





	kismet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doubtthestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubtthestars/gifts).



> _kismet -_ destiny; fate.
> 
> (More translations provided in the endnotes.)

After trying to push their beds as far away from each other as they could,  there was no denying that their small hotel room definitely was not supposed to serve as a double. After a small debate _“Would it really be that bad if we shared a ‘double bed?’”_ _“Yes, you sweat a lot in your sleep.”_ _“No, I don’t. Fuck off.”_ and a little bit of tussling Xavi and Iker finally came to an agreement, even if that agreement meant that Xavi had to buy Iker a tub of Cola Cao for the next time that that international break came around.

 

“I don’t sweat in my sleep.”

 

“Yes, you do. I don’t even know why you keep on sleeping with all your bedsheets either. Have you seen your pajamas when you wake up?”

 

“Xavi,” Iker lets out an annoyed grunt, then rolls on to his side to glare at Xavi from his side of the bed. “I will push you off this bed, I swear.”

 

“Push me and no Cola Cao,” Xavi sing-songs, sticking his tongue out at Iker after Iker responded with silence. “That’s what I thought,” Xavi huffs, satisfied.

 

Rolling his eyes, Iker rolls back onto his back to try to get some sleep.  A fruitless attempt – he could never get to bed early on the last day of break, no matter how tired he was or how early their flight was in the morning. “You know that I’ve heard that a lot of people find their soulmates on the national team.”

 

Xavi, still very much awake and used to dealing with Iker in all states of wakefulness – from barely awake before his usual morning cup of ‘coffee’ and too hyper at three in the morning – took his unexpected statement in stride; Iker had never mentioned soulmates to him before. “Who told you that?” Xavi yawns, despite his obvious curiosity.

 

“You know I can’t really—” Iker’s response is interrupted by Xavi’s laughter. “What?” Iker asks, too preoccupied fighting off his own laughter after hearing Xavi’s contagious giggles to be truly annoyed.

 

“Do you want to be mine or something?” Xavi chuckles, nearly falling off the bed himself while he shrank away from Iker’s grasp. His protests of _“Stop, don’t push me”_ and _“I’m gonna fall, Mofeta”_ are muffled by the ensuing struggle. “ _That’s the whole point, Pelopo.”_ It was hard enough for Xavi to avoid Iker’s kicks even when his own legs weren’t tangled in their bedsheets.

 

“Would it bother you if I was?” Iker snickers, then fractionally more serious adds, “I’ve heard horrible things about people finding their soulmates on rival teams.” That’s why he brought it up in the first place, the fact that the DiStefano incident had a name was reason enough to give him chills.

 

Xavi managed to mostly calm down at that point, shy for the stray hiccups that escaped his throat. He quickly sobered up at Iker’s latest statement. Iker gulps, a tell-tale sense of dread pooling into his stomach, dissolving their previous good mood. “And how exactly would that be horrible?” Xavi narrows his eyes and fixes Iker with a skeptical leer.

 

At this point, Iker’s hands had long gone slack on Xavi’s chest and now an embarrassed flush joined his pounding heart. “I mean,” Iker coughs with a forced shrug. “It would be tough, wouldn’t it? I guess it would guarantee both of you getting called up to the national team, at least.”

 

“Or not.” Xavi quips with a pointed look, laughing at Iker’s delayed shove once he caught Xavi’s not-so-subtle jibe at his football skills. “If you want to keep it a secret, it’ better to be father away since your soul mark fades, you know,” Xavi offers, then deadpans. “You could just kill me and make it into a scar.”

 

Xavi’s mood swings were going to be the death of him. Iker rolls his eyes, “But imagine, if they’re on your team— _oh shit.”_ Iker abruptly cut himself off. “Fuck, transfer season would suck.”

 

“Everything sucks for you, Iker,” Xavi scoffs.

 

This time, Xavi’s ready for his revenge, finally managing to get in a few hits of his own, except he’s laughing too hard to kick Iker properly – better for Iker, he already had a hard-enough time stopping Xavi’s free kicks during training, he wasn’t looking forward going back home with a bruise.

 

Iker sighs before giving Xavi one last shove in a half-hearted attempt to get their bunched-up bedsheets from under him.

 

Xavi breaks their relative silence with “I heard there are different types of soulmates, you know,” in a would-be casual tone that would fool anyone but Iker, who’s known Xavi for far too long. It’s obvious that Xavi knows more than he’s letting on.

 

It shouldn’t have bothered Iker as much as it did, but it brought to his attention how much of a joke the classes in the _cantera_ were. Sure, his education went a bit beyond the video that left him blushing for the rest of the class and unable to eat bananas for almost a month, but he couldn’t say the same about when went over soulmates.

 

“Really?” He asks, not bothering to hide the curiosity from his voice. It’ would have been useless to try and put up any type of farce. Xavi knows him better than anyone, too.

 

“Do they,” Xavi clears his throat before talking again, slow and cautious. “Do they not talk about soul marks in Madrid?”

 

Iker remembers his teacher’s curt explanation of _“Keep your public and private lives separate,”_ which made this question easier to respond too than he would have liked. _._ “Not really,” he admits, dropping Xavi’s scrutinizing gaze –the understatement of the century.

 

Xavi makes a skeptical noise before reaching over to tug at Iker’s hair.

_“Ow.”_

 

“Go to sleep,” Xavi goes acting like Iker hadn’t spoken. “I’ll explain it to you tomorrow,” Xavi adds, smiling fondly at Iker’s yawn and weak glare.

 

Iker wasn’t going to let him forget that.

 

 

**

 

 

He should have blamed his tired eyes, but when Iker saw a small gold band winking at him from his arm while he changed into his pajamas, the only thing he thought about doing was calling Xavi. That’s how Iker found himself sprinting out of his room and somehow losing his shirt in his haste.

 

He manages to almost trip down the stairs twice, slips on each of their three rugs, and bangs his foot against their coffee table when he rounded the corner to reach their phone.

 

“I need this” Is all the warning Unai gets before Iker snatches the set from his hands and locks himself in the bathroom, it’s the only place he could get some privacy while his mother was in the kitchen at cord’s length.

 

_“Iker, I need to call—”_

“It’s almost midnight, you don’t need to call anyone.” Iker snaps, frantically dialing Xavi’s number. It was pretty late, but hopefully someone would answer.

 

_“It’s only—”_

Iker easily tunes out the sound of his brother’s complaints after that, the coupled sounds of his pounding heart and dial tone making the bathroom seem more cramped than it had ever been. Even if Xavi didn’t answer, Iker could still convince his mom that it was important. Iker can’t even make himself look at the mirror. He doesn’t want to see whatever the hell was on his arm because he was _joking_ when he was talking about Xavi being his soulmate. But that’s Madrid for you, an abstinence-only education where he still didn’t know how to put a condom on a banana, or any other type of produce, and didn’t know anything about soulmates because no one wanted to talk about them either.

 

An unfamiliar voice answered the phone. _“Hola?”_

The receiver almost slips from Iker’s trembling hands in surprise. _“¡Si!  Erm,”_ he takes a shaky breath before continuing. “It’s Iker Casillas. Is, uh, is Xavi there?” He asks, voice cracking at the end of his question.

 

“Oh, hello , Iker. How are you? He skipped dinner, you know. He was so tired after getting back from the trip. I bet you know how it is. He shouldn’t be asleep, though; he still hasn’t showered. Hold on. _Xavi. XAVI. XAVIER HERNÁNDEZ I CREUS, NO ESTÀS DORMINT, VERITAT?_ _TENS UN AMIC AL TELÈFON._ _NO EM FACIS DIR-T'HO UNA ALTRA VEGADA._ One moment please.”

 

Iker can hear Xavi’s thumping steps all the way in Madrid and he can’t stop from grinning to himself in the mirror. “‘Lo?” Xavi grumbles and Iker’s grin fades as he remembers of the extra three hours it took Xavi to get to his house. Any other day he would have regretted his call, but this mark was too important. A confused scowl replaces Iker’s grin. “Go to the bathroom,” Iker hisses, all too aware that Xavi’s well-meaning mother was puttering close by.

 

“What the f—Iker wha—”

 

“Go to the bathroom and check your bicep,” Iker repeats slower, hoping Xavi could understand the inflection in his tone.

 

Xavi’s compliance is almost immediate, if the sound of shuffling on the other end of the line was any implication. There’s a short muffled discussion before the familiar sound of a slammed door rings through Iker’s ear. “One sec,” Xavi sounds far away, like he’s speaking somewhere above the receiver. There was a beat of silence before. _“IKER, WHAT THE FUCK?”_

 

Iker can hear some faint banging followed by what sound like apologies in Catalan before Xavi speaks loudly in his ear. “What the fuck?”

 

“I should be the one saying that!” Iker yells before remembering that his brother was probably lurking by the door. He continued in hushed, pained tones. “I had no idea they could be any other color, but black.”

 

“Well, yeah, but— I mean—” Xavi takes a deep breath. “Look, there can be non-romantic marks. Platonic ones, sorta—”

 

Iker’s throat went dry.  “Wait, what?” He croaks because, no, Xavi can’t be serious.

 

“Shut up, I’m talking.” Xavi snaps, before continuing his rushed explanation, almost like he couldn’t force his words out quickly enough. “They’re weird marks because they’re predictive —It means, and I quote ‘that you and the other person are destined to do great things together’ Xavi snorts. “It’s what my mom told me when I asked her about it. Like Marie Curie and her husband, but—”

 

Xavi’s silence didn’t seem like a good thing. “But what?”

 

“Pep told me that in football it means something different. Like… trophy different.” Xavi mumbles and Iker can hear the skepticism in his tone. “Which means, that – For the love of God, you can’t tell anyone about this. Do you know how dangerous it is to have this in football? This one’s really faded, though,” Xavi muses, almost like he was reassuring himself. “It could probably still go away.”

 

Iker can’t bring himself to asks Xavi if he _wants_ their mark to go away. He settles on a hesitant, “It’s based on potential, right?” instead. It’s almost impossible to get a grip on their situation because there weren’t that many trophies he and Xavi could win together. Well, unless one of them transferred.

 

“Sure,” is Xavi’s reply, except he doesn’t sound sure at all. “I, uh, I need to sleep, okay?” It’s about one of the most obvious escapes Iker’s ever heard from the same person that told him “Hey, look over there!” over the phone instead of telling him that he planned a surprise trip to Madrid for his birthday.

 

He lets Xavi have it. “Okay,” Iker responds robotically before hanging up his phone.

 

He stands in front of the mirror in silence for a while longer. Iker’s hands had long stopped from shaking, but that didn’t mean that it was any easier to bring himself to touch the faint band circling his bicep. It didn’t feel any different from the skin surrounding it, making Iker frown. Something so significant should have some other tell besides its color. Iker almost wants to scratch it, to make the mark feel different – he _feels_ different, this soul mark, or whatever it was should reflect that. Xavi wanted it to fade away, but Iker wasn’t so sure that he wanted it to do the same. It was a mundane, self-fulfilling prophecy and who wouldn’t want their friend to be with them through it all?

 

 

**

 

 

Life goes on.

 

Almost impossibly, Iker gets to start for Madrid. Miracles happen in Norway, of all places. It felt like a joke, then, but maybe, just maybe, his career wasn’t ending up as fruitless as he thought.

 

It’s a while before he’s defending his goal, again, and its only one of the few heartbreaks he experiences throughout the season. He watches champions come and go, some in more silence than others. Xavi wouldn’t shut up about the Champions League final in the Camp Nou with how _It should have been us, it should have been Barcelona_ and _I wanted to see it in person_.

 

Even so, he and Xavi win the Youth Championship that year and toast their marks in relative silence. Iker finally understood the danger of having something like that etched on their skin, a heavy thought that weighed in the back of his mind because maybe, maybe this was _it_. Maybe winning this trophy was the only thing they were meant to win. Every missed shot on goal only heightened their panic because there was no telling what their stupid mark meant if they crashed out of the tournament.

 

 The gold on their medals is almost exactly the color of the band on their bicep. They can barely stop staring at it and somehow no one else in the squad saw how bright and bold their marks in the shower.

 

“I guess this is goodbye,” Xavi deadpans before raising his water bottle. “To old friends.”

 

Iker laughs, mirroring Xavi’s stance. His hair is still wet and keeps dripping soapy water into his eyes because of all the shampoo he didn’t manage to wash away, but he still manages to see Xavi’s beaming expression. This meant a lot to him, too. “To better ones.”

 

“Pfft, yeah, sure. Tell me when you find someone to win the World Cup with.”

 

 

**

 

 

Still, as insignificant as it may have been and as an oddly early response as to why they developed a mark in the first place, Iker uses their victory as courage. It becomes one of his rituals – Xavi did always make fun of his superstitions – to touch his mark before he leaves the tunnel, even if it is just to sit on the bench. Iker caught Guti staring at him when he did it once, and only then did he realize that it looked like he was touching a phantom armband, but thankfully, Guti never brought it up.

 

 

**

 

 

In his euphoria over _La Octava_ , Iker almost deletes the last message on his answering machine, letting everyone else’s imaginations wash over him like a warm wave. Needless to say, Iker’s shocked when he’s greeted by Xavi’s angry voice.

 

_Why didn’t you fucking tell me? Don’t that that I didn’t see that stunt, cutting off your sleeve before you went on the field. Do you know how annoying it is to wear long-sleeved shirts? Well, of course you fucking do, but, fucking Christ, Iker—_

Iker’s laughing while he’s calling Xavi back. _“Would it honestly kill you to say congratulations—”_

 

 

**

 

 

It’s a ridiculously close game and it’s all Iker can do to ignore the Old Trafford howling in his ears. Ronaldo’s dancing through United’s defense, but a ridiculous own goal has Iker on his toes because there’s still a chance for United to come back and he doesn’t want to take that risk. It’s an obscene number and a ridiculous goal to strive for, but _la Decima_ is right within their grasp.

 

Impossibly, Old Trafford gets louder with their next substitution and Iker’s almost too busy talking to Iván when he sees United’s number 7 jogging onto the field. It’s been a busy second half for Iker, to say the least, even with their decent goal differential from the first leg and the number of away goal they’ve racked up. Needless to say, Iker isn’t looking forward to possibly having to defend one of Beckham’s curlers, it’s his job to, but he’s not going to be happy if he has to do it.

 

Ferguson’s tactics are clear: Manchester United’s going to fight until the end and he’s not afraid to pull every weapon from his arsenal, especially one that used to be an undisputed starter. It’s not known as the Theatre of Dreams for nothing and both goalkeepers are feeling the brunt of keeping their respective team’s hopes alive in this close match. That’s why Iker’s simply disappointed, instead of surprised, when his team gave away a free kick in a potentially dangerous area – an especially dangerous area with David Beckham prowling the field. His voice had long gone hoarse from yelling, but that was to be expected when his teammates wouldn’t line up correctly for their fucking wall.

 

It’s all for naught.

 

The ball ends up in the next about a foot away and all Iker can do is throw his hands up in the air. _“Joder. Pero ¿Qué fue eso?”_

 

No one answers and, thankfully they have multiple chances on their end to make for it. The clock’s ticking down and Iker can feel every passing second buzzing beneath his skin. _We can do this. We can do this._

Then, suddenly, his mantra fades into white noise when van Nistelrooy approaches the box and, almost impossibly, there’s Beckham by his net again pushing the loose ball in. Another string of curse words leave Iker’s mouth out of desperation because, even though the clock’s ticking down, there’s still a chance to go South.

 

A scuffle broke out only minutes before the end of the match and Iker’s felt the ground give beneath him, his stomach pooling with dread. A sigh of relief leaves his mouth at the sound of the whistle and his legs shake beneath him. They’re through to the next round and that’s all that matters. His happy thoughts are slightly tarnished by how he couldn’t keep a clean-sheet and made it harder for his team to stay in the game, but that was something for him to think about when they hit the showers. He gives Roberto a quick hug and then takes off his gloves to give his condolences to the United players.

 

Most of the team has gone into the tunnel at this point, but there are still some stragglers padding towards the touch line. The United players are thanking their fans with their head held high and, Iker, in his haste to jog back to the tunnel almost runs into a player with _DAN’s_ number 5 over his shoulder.

 

“Oh, uh—” He begins, but cuts himself off at seeing Beckham’s apologetic smile.

 

“Good game,” Beckham murmurs, barely loud enough to be heard above the crowd.

 

Iker nodded, remembering the fight Beckham put into the game after coming in as a substitute. Iker gives Beckham’s bare arm a quick squeeze. “ _Tú—_ ah, you too.” Iker’s responding grin is genuine, hoping Beckham understood that he wasn’t only talking about this leg of the quarter-final.

 

Weirdly enough, he remembers the rumors circling around David Beckham’s possible transfer to Real Madrid. Even though Iker’s learned to mostly ignore the whispers surrounding the club, it doesn’t mean that he’s completely oblivious to the noise. It’s impossible to escape the news about how Real Madrid’s on the verge of making another big signing to match with all the other giants that are on their squad. Iker understands the ambition to get the ever-elusive _Decima_ into their hands, but some of the numerical figures that were floating around were astronomical.

The only question still left to be answered was where he would play if he joined the club since he played in the same position as Figo. It’s not like they could play with 12 on the field.

 

Still, it would be a lie if he said he wasn’t looking forward to his own form of revenge in stopping some of David’s goals during training.

 

“Next time, I’ll stop them,” Iker offers causing Beckham to laugh.

 

“Don’t bet on it.”

 

 

**

 

 

His hair is longer than Guti’s has ever been, Iker notes absentmindedly, as Beckham and Steve make their way into the locker room, the sound of Beckham’s unfamiliar laughter cutting through Roberto’s music. Steve’s probably the best person to welcome anyone into the club, but Beckham— no _David_ , couldn’t ask for a better person to help him get acclimated, even if Steve was translating in his horribly accented Spanish.

 

“Everyone,” Steve calls out, startling Iker from his thoughts. “This is David.” He pats David on the back while he made a sweeping gesture around the room with his free hand.

 

David, who staggered slightly under Steve’s hard smack, gives the room with a tense smile. _“Hola,”_ he greets in a small voice

 

A chorus of _Hola’s_ and _Bienvenidos_ follow David’s greeting and Iker almost doesn’t say anything, too distracted by how David gulped while he studied the room; he was nervous. David Beckham was _human_ and not the aloof superstar the tabloids painted him out to be. Iker’s late _“Bienvenidos”_ rings through the room, making some snicker and Raúl grin toothily while he walked up to shake their new signing’s hand.

 

 _“Bienvenidos, David. Es un placer tenerte en nuestro club,”_ Raúl announces in a firm, but friendly voice.

 

_“Raúl, your new captain, said—”_

 

“Gracias,” David interjected with a wry grin, ignoring Steve’s annoyed “ _Hey!” “Es un honor estar aquí.”_

“I’ll introduce you to your new teammates,” Raúl offers giving Steve a playful stern look. “Since _someone_ hasn’t done that yet.”

                                                                                             

It’s all standard procedure, Raul going down the lines of players to fill David in on where they were from and what position they played. It wasn’t any information that David didn’t already know or could have found out by himself, apart from the offhand comments Steve and sometimes, even Raul, supplied.

 

_“Our resident DJ.”_

 

_“Don’t let him near your carrots.”_

Finally, the trio stopped in front of him and Iker can’t keep from frowning at Steve’s haughty smile. His palms are sweatier than usual, obviously, because he didn’t know what Steve would say. First impressions were the most important, after all. “This is Iker our goalkeeper. He’s from around here.”

 

“Yeah, you’ve scored a few goals against him,” Steve teases, nudging David with his elbow while giving Iker a wink.

 

Iker feels his cheeks heating up both from embarrassment and indignation. “Not _that_ close from here,” Iker defends, though he supposes Raúl was right, he was from somewhere closer than Mori. Steve’s statement was a bit harder to refute.

 

David’s handshake is firm and professional, but his smile’s teasing. “Let’s see if I can put a few more goals past you in training.” He replies, in an echo of the conversation they had all those months ago.

 

Iker’s English is probably no better than Steve’s, but he shoots back with a _“Don’t bet on it,”_ anyways.

 

David laughs.

 

 

**

 

 

Incorporating someone new into their training routine always felt a bit off on their first day, beyond the rust that they inevitably accumulated over the summer, whether it was from playing with their national team or not playing at all. It was normal, but there was an edge of exasperation with every missed pass and silly tackle until everyone learned how to play with each other.

 

Except not every singing was accompanied by the same media fanfare as David was. Figo’s and Zizou’s probably rivaled David’s in terms of size, but Iker could sense a thread of apprehensiveness running through their ranks as they tried to welcome a player that the media portrayed as indifferent towards his clubs, at best. Oddly enough, Iker easily managed to discard that supposed “aloof” part of David, but it appeared that others didn’t. David’s determination and eagerness to play was obvious enough to him.

 

This reluctant acceptance of their newest player became evident when _el míster_ announced that they would be working on long balls. Iker noticed that a few of their defenders shared a sardonic look. 

 

Unsurprisingly, from Iker’s point of view, David quickly shut up any of the nonbelievers left on their team after every pass resulted in Iker defending someone’s attempt on goal, if not David’s own attempt.

 

“Go easy on me, maybe?” Iker calls out, squinting up in David’s general direction, hands on his knees.

 

This time it’s the person standing to Iker’s immediate right who responds, an undeniable thrum of admiration coloring his tone. “Not a chance.” It’s Zizou. Iker assumes Zizou’s following grin was supposed to be apologetic, but he looked a bit too thrilled for it to be genuine.

 

 Iker silently shared Zizou’s enthusiasm, even though his actions betrayed his emotions – Zizou rolled his eyes after Iker stuck his tongue out at him. _Los Galacticos_ might’ve been a stupid moniker that the media gave the team, but it didn’t make Iker any less excited to see what their season had in store, even if he wasn’t looking forward to flying all the way to Japan for a preseason match.

 

 

**

 

 

Japan comes and goes and their pre-season tour continues like normal, except that David’s often the last one to enter the locker room after staying to practice for a few more minutes.

 

“Do you always do this?” Iker overhears Figo ask David one day while he’s untying his boots. It’s a friendship that Iker has trouble understanding, but it’s not the only relationship of David’s that he has a hard time processing. Apart from Steve and Figo, somehow Roberto Carlos already trusts David enough with the aux cord, a feat Iker himself has yet to manage, and Zizou always sits next to him when they travel, even though Iker never sees the two of them talking.

 

Iker’s observations are only born out of a slight resentment. He hasn’t had a chance to talk to David beyond his usual tug on his ponytail when he jogs past David on his way to the goal posts. David always responds with his usual smile and a shake of his head and it hasn’t bothered Iker that much; somehow his English teacher had a worse accent than Steve’s. Sure, sometimes he gets a weird look from Raúl, with his mother-of-pearl soul marks glinting in the sun, like he was Iker’s confused guardian angel instead of the Angel of Madrid that was a tad bit sensitive to bonds.

 

“Usually,” David shrugs.

 

That’s when Iker decides that he’d _actually_ talk to David tomorrow, language barrier be damned. It didn’t make any sense if Iker thought he knew David when the only thing he knew about him was that all the media said about him was a lie. His shoe laces are silent and offer no judgement, but he’d bet if they had faces, they’d be looking at Iker like Raúl usually did in training, somewhere in-between constipated and disappointed. Iker didn’t understand, it wasn’t like it was a crime to bond, not in the literal sense, with the newer members of the squad.

 

 

**

 

 

Iker’s plan ends up going smoother than he thought. It’s David who sits next to him on the team bus, this time.

 

“Um,” Iker trails off, not knowing where to start. Not only was it a surprise to have David sit next to him, but the frequency with which David kept looking over his shoulders was a bit worr some.

 

“Macca,” David supplies after slumping down in his seat with a loud sigh. He gives Iker a weary look. “Scissors,” he grunts while miming a snipping motion with his left hand.

 

Iker gives David a puzzled look. “On the bus?”

 

David shrugs before laying his head – with a higher ponytail than usual – on Iker’s shoulder. “Who knows. Hide me?” David, it seemed, believed that hiding consisted of sleeping, but it suited Iker just fine, saving him from starting an awkward conversation that would have either been _Are you excited for your Liga debut?_ Or _Do they talk about soul bonds in England and, on that note, do you have any?_ Just because Iker hated small talk.

 

“You don’t hide very good.”

 

David smiles, eyes already closed. “Y’know, if I knew you spoke English, I would’ve made you my translator instead of Macca.”

 

 

**

 

 

Iker doesn’t stop tugging on David’s hair, instead he’s learned to ignore Raúl and does it even when they’re not training. He doesn’t go as far as to sit next to him during lunch or be his room with him, but he does accuse him of picking up a Portuguese accent when he talks in Spanish.

 

“And you’re picking up mine in your English,” David retorts with a smug smile.

 

Iker snorts, pushing at David’s jaw with his knuckles. “It’s only been a few weeks.”

 

 

**

 

 

Iker does end up becoming David’s official translator at the end of the summer, something that David welcomed with a sad smile, except his Spanish had already improved to the point that he didn’t even need Iker’s help.

 

When he tells David that he doesn’t need him anymore, he’s greeted by an expression that he can’t quite place. “But I like having you around, Iker,” he replies after a few moments of silence.

 

Iker busts out laughing out of relief, “I thought you were going to say something more serious.” His heart’s pounding and he can’t bring himself to be mad at David’s relaxed smile “You don’t need an excuse to keep me around.” And that was the end of that.

 

 

**

 

 

Raúl stops giving Iker weird looks after a while and, on the day of their last practice before international break, he sits down next to Iker before he even had time to start taking the tape off his wrists.

“So, first international break since we got back to club football” Coming from anyone else in any other tone, it would have been a casual comment, except Raúl doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s about to lecture Iker on something that he didn’t even know he did wrong.

 

“Raúl?” Iker asks hesitantly, too confused to play innocent.

 

Raúl’s untying his laces, but somehow, Iker sees him shrug. “Without the team,” he clears his throat before giving Iker a pointed look “without David.”

 

Iker just gapes at his captain in his captain in shock. What did he think was going on between David and him? They were just friends that barely saw each other outside of their matches or training. It’s not like they were dating out of their bonds or that they were secretly bonded or anything and that was only reason why David transf—

 

“Raúl we’re not—” Iker stammered, feeling his face flush. Even with all of Xavi’s complaining, no one could see their bond when Iker wore short sleeved shirts and even if someone saw it, it was easy to blame the mark on a trick of light, not to mention the fact that it was the wrong color for a romantic attachment entirely. “We’re just—”

 

“I don’t want to know,” Raúl interjects in a harsh tone. Iker’s distinctly aware of the marks freckling Raúl’s skin because it was impossible to keep those secret and yet. Aware of his mistake, Raúl straightens up to ling his arm across Iker’s shoulder in a sympathetic half hug. “Just be careful.”

 

Iker only nods, the words _We’re not anything_ dying in his throat. They weren’t, t now he wasn’t so sure if he was entirely opposed to the idea, even if what he had to go by was his teammates being misled by mundane gestures.

 

 

**

 

 

Xavi turns off his shower to glare at Iker. “Barcelona will romance you more than any stupid boy,” he declares with a snort and turns around to grab his towel.

 

Xavi doesn’t look at all intimidating, which made his silly advice even more ridiculous. “You know, Pelopo, I liked you better with your Backstreet Boy hair instead of this depressed porcupine look.” Thankfully, Xavi ignores Iker and lets him get back on track. “But I was just wondering, you know? Like, what if.”

 

This time Xavi replies with a small grunt, apparently too busy toweling off his depressed porcupine hair to answer his best friend. Iker uses this small interlude to grab his toiletries from his side of the shower. Iker grumbles and avoids Xavi’s towel from hitting him in the face while Xavi whipped it around to tie it at his waist when Iker notices a black mark on Xavi’s leg.

 

 _“HOLY FUCK. WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?”_ Iker screeches.

 

Xavi’s not expecting Iker’s outburst. He jumps in surprise and ends up slipping on the lingering soap on the floor of the shower in an undignified heap. Xavi stares up wide-eyed at Iker in a silent question while the sound of footsteps get closer.

 

_“Are you—”_

 

 _“Leave!”_ Iker snaps. He doesn’t even know who came in to help, just that they left. He’s frozen in place, unable to stop still staring at Xavi. He feels like he’s shaking and he can see a taunting gold glint out of the corner of his eye. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

Iker can tell when his vague statements click into place. Xavi drops his gaze and lets out a loud sigh before looking down at the mark in question.

 

The silence between them is heavy. Iker feels a little betrayed with his sullen pout serving as a dead giveaway. “How long?” Iker asks, but the unbroken silence is answer enough.

 

“It’s complicated,” is the first thing that Xavi says and Iker rolls his eyes.

_“I fucki—”_ Except it’s not just a black mark, it’s a soul bond with a silver outline like the one he and Xavi shared.

 

“It’s just a dumb chemical reaction,” Xavi continues as if Iker hadn’t made a sound. “You know?” And Iker did know, since everyday there was some report from scientists from God-knows-what University outlining how much closer they were to finding an explanation behind soul marks. 

 

“That’s how you knew about the different types of marks, didn’t you?”

 

“Yeah, we didn’t even talk about it in La Masia.” Xavi snorts, annoyed. “They used to,” he continues, frustrated, but not at Iker. “Apparently.”

 

Iker hums, still feeling a bit hurt, “Not gonna tell me who it is?”

 

Xavi gives Iker a weak smile, an apology Iker still isn’t ready to accept. “I’ll tell you when you when you get yours, too.”

 

Iker rolls his eyes, still agitated. “I’m never gonna know, then.”

 

 

**

 

 

David comes back from break without any hair.

 

“What is this?” Iker yells in place of a greeting, walking up to David with his hands on his hips.

 

“You don’t like it?” David sounds surprised.

 

Iker frowns, it’s not that he didn’t like it. “It looks different.” The _I can’t pull on your hair anymore_ , went unsaid. David didn’t need to know that.

 

“I’ll grow it out just for you,” David’s smile is teasing, Iker knows this because, of course, he was going to grow it back out, but it still feels nice to pretend.

 

Iker tuts and shakes his head. “I can’t believe you’re copying Zizou.”

 

 

**

 

 

It never snows in Madrid, at least never long enough for it to stay on the ground.

 

Iker still hasn’t forgotten Raúl’s ominous warning or Xavi’s deal about revealing his own soulmate, but it doesn’t stop him from talking to David. Except, now, Iker’s gone over to David’s house a few times, as friends do and it’s been fine. No one knows about it, but it’s not something that anyone needs to find out. One of Roberto Carlos’ sweaters is drying with the rest of David’s laundry and some of Zizou’s borrowed plates are on the counter ready to be picked back up. Iker’s just another one of the many that’s passes by. Sure, he amuses the thought of being David’s soulmate sometimes, but it’s just that, a joke.

 

El mister let them have a break for training today because it was hard to focus when every footfall kicked up a smattering of snow.

 

That’s how Iker found himself chasing after David after a well-aimed snowball hit him straight in the back.

 

“Got you!” Iker yells and tackles him like he usually does during training. This time, David doesn’t put up much of a fight and ends up square on his back without much of a struggle.

 

Iker’s cheeks hurt from grinning. He couldn’t remember the last time it snowed so much, it probably hadn’t showed this much in years. David’s smile isn’t as wide, but no less genuine. “You’re used to this, huh?” Iker pants, staring down at David.

 

“A little,” David chuckles, a bit breathless himself.

 

Iker nods, satisfied with David’s answer and shifts so that he could grab a hold of his hand to make standing easier.

 

He’s about to stand up when David’s soft “You should come to England, one day,” makes Iker freeze into place. His response takes Iker by surprise because David says _“England”_ not _“Manchester,” “London,”_ or _“Home.”_

 

David’s staring up at him, surprisingly serious for what they were doing a few moments before, his hand holding Iker’s with a loose grip. David’s beneath him, rosy-cheeked, breathing heavily, but impossibly relaxed like he hadn’t just offered Iker his home. Iker’s voice gets caught in his throat while a swarm of butterflies decides to take residence in his stomach. It’s all too much.

 

He doesn’t know how long they end up staring at each other, but it’s too much for far too long. Iker decides to take his free hand and rake some snow onto David’s face.

 

 _“Iker!”_ David groans in exasperation, an expression that Iker’s long grown acquainted with and he finally feels like he can breathe; normalcy has been restored.

 

 

**

 

 

“He wears gloves too, huh.”

 

Iker rolls his eyes and resists the urge to throw some of his almonds at David. “It’s a royalty thing,” Iker explains between bites, watching a small royal family on television and noticing how a miniature Rey Juan Carlos doesn’t do the princess wave as well as Princess Mia from Genovia. “Legend has it that all royals have their soul marks on their hands.” It’s what they told him in History class, the extent of all he knew about soul marks beyond the few words Xavi’s told him over the years. Some sort of propaganda, probably, but Iker couldn’t bring himself to care, not when he was having a conversation about this with someone that wasn’t Xavi.

 

David scoffs before elbowing Iker. “I knew that. It’s just weird to see it on him.”

 

Iker hums. “What about Prince Charles?” He’s genuinely curious to hear David’s response and he’s a little disappointed when David doesn’t answer him. Except his frustration quickly turns into unease; he had no idea what they discussed in England and he just managed question two of the most unapproachable  subjects he could have thought of: royalty and soulmates.

 

Iker opens his mouth to apologize when David speaks. “Wanna see somethin’?” He doesn’t give Iker time to reply before he rolls up his sleeve and points to a red mark on the underside of his forearm. It almost looks like a scratch, except it’s too bright.

 

Iker’s speechless.

 

“Me and my other friends have the same one,” David supplies, then grins when glances up and see’s Iker’s dumbfounded expression. “I know Spain’s more hush-hush about this but,” he shrugged. “I thought you should know.” He’s right, people don’t usually show their marks – well, if they weren’t people like Raúl.

 

“You don’t have to do or say anything, you know,” David murmurs, offering Iker an out. “I just wanted to show you.”

 

If David knew that people in Spain didn’t, then why did he—What was he expecting from Iker? Had he seen the one Iker shares with Xavi? He settles for “Thank you,” because two words is all that his dry mouth could manage.

 

 

**

 

 

Iker dreams about their relationship that very night. He imagines what a bond between he and David would be like.

 

 It’s familiar. The scene is so clear that he can almost touch it. He wakes next to David with the sun streaming through their windows. It’s quiet and he’s simply watching David sleep, but it’s enough. He feels different, there’s a warm feeling turning his insides the color of golden honey. The mark wasn’t just a superficial reaction, but something that burned within him and tasted like home. It felt exactly like in the stories that his mom used to read to him when he was little and memorized by the time she told them to Unai. Except there wasn’t anything to be ashamed and nothing to hide. It felt right to have a corner of his mind belong to someone else.

 

Dream-David opens his eyes with a small sleepy smile, not to different than the ones Iker had greeted him with on the team bus. “Good morning,” David’s voice is gravellier than usual and Iker can’t help but laugh and lean forward to kiss him just because he can.

 

It’s different, but nothing really changed.

 

 

**

 

There’s a voicemail from David in his inbox, that morning, letting Iker know that he’s still very excited to see Iker’s house for the first time and how he can’t wait for dinner.

 

He set an alarm to let him know when the David’s interview, or the reason why they were having a late dinner instead of lunch, was going to air and almost his head on the inside of his cabinet when he hears it go off, finding the sauce pan would have to wait.

 

Iker’s clock was probably running behind because when he reaches the living room, an extremely dressed down David grins at him from his television screen. He’s answering some question about the Metro. He’s scratching his chest opposite from where Iker knows his new tattoo is and Iker finds himself mirroring David’s movements with a distracted smile. A streak of black catches his eye and Iker’s blood turns cold until he looks down at his own chest.

 

His cellphones on the coffee table in front of him and Xavi answers on the second ring. “You better fucking tell me who your soulmate is because I found mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you enjoyed! This was my first time participating in a fic exchange and man was it something. The fic turned out into something less soulbond-centric and romantic than I imagined it to be, but I hope the message still gets across!  
>    
>   
>  **Translations:**  
>   
>  _NO ESTÀS DORMINT, VERITAT? TENS UN AMIC AL TELÈFON. NO EM FACIS DIR-T'HO UNA ALTRA VEGADA_ \- You're not asleep, right? You have a friend on the phone. Don't make me tell you another time (Google translate; Catalan)   
> _Bienvenidos_ \- Welcome  
>  _Es un placer tenerte en nuestro club_ \- It's a pleasure to have you in our club.  
> 
> **Notes:**
> 
> \- First off, the mark Xavi and Iker have is supposed to reference their international success as seen [here ](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/football/article-3165711/Iker-Casillas-Xavi-Hernandez-honoured-careers-Real-Madrid-Barcelona-Spanish-government.html). (And [here](http://68.media.tumblr.com/0930f6117e18c3c9a9221fff739dfb5d/tumblr_n8utq4GpLC1qj8ex2o2_400.jpg) is a picture that accurately describes their relationship.)   
> \- Shout out to my friend for giving me the line _Barcelona will romance you more than any boy._  
>  \- Raúl nickname really is the Angel of Madrid and I wanted to pay tribute to that with having his bonds show up as white in the fic. Mori and Guti were originally going to have a bigger role, but they didn't make it into the final cut. I hc'd Raúl having marks like Xavi and Iker's, but mostly one-sided since he's bond sensitive and has marks that show up for everyone.   
> \- In that same token, I left Xavi's bond open ended to be someone important, but it can be almost whoever you want. (I had someone in mind, but I'm not going to say! Feel free to guess in the comment section ;) )   
> \- David's is referencing the C/O 92. As you can see, I wasn't exactly creative with the colors. (Everything is made up and the colors don't matter.)   
> \- [Iker](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/football/article-2631553/Real-Madrid-legend-Iker-Casillas-special-relationship-European-Cup-Atletico-warned.html) used to cut off the sleeves off his shirts because they didn't used to make short-sleeved keeper jerseys.  
> \-  The [game ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9AA3_7F_4KY) I chronicled was Manchester United vs Real Madrid at Old Trafford where defender Iván Helguera scored an own goal in the 4-3 match (6-5 agg)   
> \- Macca [helped](https://justanothermadridista.files.wordpress.com/2009/01/steve-mcmanaman-5.jpg?w=590) David acclimate in Madrid and apparently Becks was really upset when Macca was let go (Also 'Steve' is Steve McManaman because I couldn't see anyone in Madrid calling him Macca - still bothered me to sat Steve, though.)   
> \- A comment on [this](https://youtu.be/k-avF7z80iA) youtube video:"every time the balls come to him, you can actually see the forwards just asking for the long balls, shows how much they trusted this man's accuracy" 
> 
> Thanks again for reading! 


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